Children of the Barricades
by AnnaTheVisitor
Summary: A story I couldn't resist writing... The Friends of the ABC and their internal struggles before the Revolution. I'm having a bit of fun with this. Come, drink with me!
1. Chapter 1

I'M SORRY I JUST HAD TO, OKAY

Children of the Barricade

Enjolras sat at his desk, bent over a slew of papers with his head in his hands. He wanted to get it done, really he did; nothing was more important to him than his Patria.

_Patria_. Just her _name_ sent a shiver of pleasure up his spine. He would do anything for her, his Bonnie lass the maiden of France. The very spirit of France herself. He would set her free.

Freedom. Yes, this was his inspiration. Freedom. Freedom from oppression, from the sickness and the disease that was the King of France. Accursed King! Enjolras plucked his pen from its inkwell to begin his papers again. The drunken singing of his comrades echoed through the halls, unheard by Enjolras. The beating of his heart echoed the beating of the drums he could almost hear now. They just needed a sign. Soon he could have all of France defend his beloved Patria.

* * *

Grantaire threw his head back, downing the dregs of the bottle he clasped by the neck in his hand. The world around him was a little fuzzy, warm and fuzzy, like colors swirling; like a Van Gogh painting. What if Van Gogh had been drunk while painting all those lovely paintings? The thought made him laugh, and he was vaguely aware of others joining him in his humour. Combeferre and Marius sat near him, wearing grins and clutching shot glasses.

_Amateurs_, Grantaire thought, turning in search of a new bottle. Joly stood with one leg on a chair, relating a story to Lesgles and Feuilly. Jehan he found sitting in a chair, scribbling in his notebook again. Grantaire grinned a crooked grin. He wasn't quite drunk enough to love dear Jehan yet. Madame Hucheloup sat behind the bar in her favorite chair, cleaning out various glasses.

Grantaire stumbled up to her.

"Got anything for me, lovely lady? Preferably wine?" Grantaire didn't notice her get up, or make a face at him, or even move until she slammed a bottle in front of his face. "Thank you, Madame," he slurred, catching the bottle from the counter and returning to his spot near Combeferre.

* * *

Jehan sighed, cradling the side of his face in one hand. His knees were drawn up close to support the notebook he wrote on, pinning it to his thighs with the side of his other hand, his writing hand, a pen captured between his fingers. Oh, how Jehan loved these moments, when inspiration struck his heart and he had time to put it into words. Around the lovely poem he had scrawled in his soft loopy writing, sketched hollyhocks and hyacinth and lilies grew. He smiled the smallest smile, signing his name at the bottom of the page with a flourish.

_Of what sweet music_

_Such grows by the light of dawn_

_The same sun that kindles a thousand gardens_

_The same sun that warms a thousand faces_

_Sweet music of birdsong and lute_

_A tousling breeze through the grass_

_The sweet music of laughter_

_The happiness of your beloved_

_All touched _

_Gilded_

_By the sun_

_What gift of grace _

_Has been bestowed upon the hearts of men_

_That they beat together _

_To make the sweet music of the world_

_-Jean Prouvaire_

Jehan beamed at his work, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear. Boisterous laughter echoed about the room, but Jehan did not partake in the consumption of alcohol tonight. He much enjoyed this time to himself, in the presence of his closest friends, where he could watch and observe without the paranoia of being watched himself.

Suddenly, Jehan felt a twist in his gut. A longing. He loved his friends, his Amis, he truly did, but what he wouldn't give for the tender and forgiving arms of a woman who loved him. _To sleep, perchance to dream. Aye, there's the rub, _he quoted to himself. He wanted to hold a lady in his arms, to see adoration and acceptance in her eyes. Was it too much to ask? His heart leapt with desire; the loving embrace of a maiden, yes. Jehan began at his notebook once more.

* * *

Grantaire looked around, trying to focus without giving much effort. Where was Enjolras? He'd barely seen him all night.

"Alright," Grantaire spoke, causing his small group of men to turn towards him, "if you were Enjolras, what would you be doing?"

"Working on the Revolution," four voices chorused. Combeferre jerked his chin towards Enjolras' study, a slow smile blooming on his face.

"My thoughts exactly," Grantaire muttered to both answers. With that, he turned to the lit doorway, nearly tripping over a chair.

"What is that boy getting himself into?" Marius shook his head, sipping from a glass of brandy.

"He can't help loving Enjolras," Bahorel defended Grantaire. "I don't know a single man in here who wouldn't be gay for the fellow." He raised his eyebrow, daring the others to deny him.

No one did.

* * *

Grantaire leaned on the door jamb of Enjolras' study, crossing his arms over his chest. His weight made the wood creak, alerting Enjolras of Grantaire's presence. Enjolras, however, ignored it.

"Leave," he said without turning.

Grantaire flinched at the harshness of the word. "Goodness, and here I come to make kindly conversation," he said sarcastically, taking a step into the room. He noticed how Enjolras held his head in his hands, with the heels of his palms pressed into his eyebrows and his fingertips in his hair. How Grantaire wished they were his own fingertips there, that he might fondle Enjolras' golden curls. A strange thought, yet utterly maddening. Without question, Grantaire reached out to fulfill the desire. He crossed the room in three steps to lay his hand upon Enjolras' head-

Enjolras whirled, out of the chair and facing Grantaire with a livid expression on his face in less than a second, a violent shudder wracking his body. Grantaire's eyes roved across that body, the flawlessness of his build and the hard muscles of his chest. The top button of his _bouton de chemise_ hung loose, revealing the mesmerizing way his collarbones curved away from the hollow at the base of his throat. Grantaire couldn't control himself. He reached towards the beautiful sight, wanting to feel it under his fingers.

Enjolras intercepted his hand mid-reach, before they could trace the soft-looking skin of his neck. Though his grasp was crushingly tight, Grantaire's lips parted at the touch, struck to the bone in a moment of breathless delight.

"Get. Out." Enjolras threw Grantaire's hand back at him; he stretched his fingers to retrieve sense of touch. They were purple with lack of blood.

"Oh, Enjolras," Grantaire sighed, ignoring his warning. "Just one night, give up. Let your dear Patria be. Your nation can survive without you for just one night-"

Grantaire was cut short by the look on Enjolras' face. "I can't afford to lose a night. I can't afford to lose one second. There is work to be done. There are plans to be made. My Patria may be able to survive without me, but I refuse to survive without her. Get _out_, you drunken bastard, before I retrieve my bayonets."

Grantaire drew back, stung. But not quite shocked. No, this was just the sort of thing Enjolras would say. Their faces crumpled at the exact same moment, and Enjolras slumped back to his desk and into the same position he'd held before. Grantaire reached for his shoulder, meaning to convey apology and support, but in a rare moment of realization he caught himself, and turned from the room without a word.

* * *

"Did you know," Feuilly began, and the small group of students groaned, "that before adopting Christianity as their dominant religion, Poland believed in the god of war, fertility, and abundance? In fact, their capital city, Warsaw, means 'belonging to war.' I'm going to visit Poland one day, just you wait-"

"Yes, Feuilly, and send us a postcard," Lesgles interrupted, earning some chuckles.

"You talk too much of the future," Combeferre declared. "Let us drink to today!" The group of friends cheered, raising their glasses. Jehan rose from his spot in the corner to secure a toast, and Grantaire found a glass to raise as he approached the table.

"Let us drink to the night," Combeferre continued, "to the present in which we find ourselves alive and healthy. Let us drink to the Friends of the ABC!"

"To the _Amis de l'ABC_!" they repeated as one.

**Okay I'm sorry this was my first FanFiction for Les Mis and I just had to put it out there. I get a lot of inspiration from childrenxofxthexbarricade. tumblr. com, if you want to check it out ^^ please don't judge me, there are sOoOo many places I want to take this. They're in character now, but heh, just you wait. I'm excited! Don't forget to review! 3**

**Love**

**Anna**


	2. Chapter 2

Hey there! If you like this story, please be directed here!

s/9167910/1/Children-of-the-Barricade

Thank you!

Love

Anna


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